But this boy’s coughed up, and eh seems tickled. — Eskimos . . . snow . . . I’ll have to remember that one!
So ah’m headin back intae toon. Ah picks up some mair posh fae Rehab Connor n droaps it oaf tae Monny in Leith. Connor’s probably aboot the biggest dealer in toon right now. Never touches it ehsel. In fact eh works as a full-time drug counsellor for the Social Work Department. Gies every cunt two numbers: one if yir clean but huvin a crisis and need tae talk tae somebody, the other yin if ye need sorted oot. Got the market fuckin covered, the snidey cunt! Telt ays once that eh wis counsellin some boy n the gadge goes, — Look, it’s no workin oot for ays, Connor, this sobriety, this counsellin. Ah really need ye tae sort ays oot. Connor goes, ‘Nae worries, mate, but ye really will need tae call ays oan ma other phone. Ah’ve goat ma reputation tae think ay. Have tae be professional but, ay.’
Then ah decides tae call it a day n go tae the scheme tae visit the auld lady, Alice Ulrich, surname gied tae her by deceased German second husband. Ah’m parked up outside the Festival Theatre oan the Bridges, n this cunt taps the windae at the lights. Ah must’ve forgot tae switch the sign oaf. — Booked, mate, ah tells the boy.
— You have your ‘For Hire’ sign on.
— Forgot tae switch it oaf but, ay.
— You’re obliged by contract law to take me.
— Sorry, mate, would love tae, but jist had a job come in. Ah taps the screen. — Control, ay. Computerised.
— That’s bloody nonsense!
— Ma hands ur tied, mate. Nothin wid gie me greater pleasure thin tae take yir fare, but ah’m a slave tae Control, ay. Ye dinnae take the jobs they gie ye, they pit ye oaf line aw night as punishment, ah goes, startin up the motor n pillin away. Ah kin hear um still slaverin oan in the street about contract law, some cunts’ll no be telt. Anywey, ah pills up tae the lights n honks at this brunette in a long broon coat, gittin a saucy wee grin back. Nice tae be nice.
So ah heads oot tae the auld girl’s at Sighthill. She ey sais she nivir goes oot but whin ah gits roond she’s goat her coat, hat n gloves oan. — Kin ye gie yir auld mother a lift, Terry son? Ah widnae ask, it’s jist the weather . . .
— Whaire ye gaun?
— The Royal.
Jesus-suck-yir-baws-Christ, it’s miles away n ah jist fuckin well came fae way oot thaire. — What’s up – ye no well?
— Naw, ah’m awright, she sais. Then looks ay ays that stubborn wey. — If ye must ken, ah’m gaun tae see yir faither.
Ah fuckin kent something wis gaun on. — Right, so that’s been yir game, eh?
— He isnae a well man, Terry. The big C. He’s no goat much time left.
— Good.
— Dinnae say that!
— How no? Ah shake ma heid. — Ah cannae fuckin believe yir gaun up tae see him. Yir littin um take the pish again. Eftir aw they years that he humiliated ye.
— He’s still the faither ay . . . he’s yours and Yvonne’s dad!
— Whit the fuck hus eh ever done fir ays?
She points at ays, wi rage burning in her eyes. — Dinnae start aboot him! What huv you done for your bairns? Yuv goat enough ay thum dotted aboot here, thaire n God knows where else! Donna says she’s no heard fae you in ages, she wis up here wi Kasey Linn yesterday.
— Eh? What’s a case ay lin?
— Kasey Linn! Your granddaughter!
— Aw . . . the bairn . . . ah goes. Jesus fuck, ah nearly forgot oor Donna even hud a bairn . . . Ah should go n see it, but ah hate the idea ay bein a grandad. Tae burds ah’m a GILS but: a grandfather I’d like tae shag!
But now she’s giein ays that eye. — You’ve no even seen the bairn yet, yir ain granddaughter, bichrist! Huv ye!
— Ah’ve been a wee bit busy . . .
— The bairn’s nearly a year auld! Yir a useless waster! Worse than Henry Lawson ever was!
— Fuck you, ah goes, n ah jist steams oot the hoose. Auld boot kin git two buses!
— Wait, Terry! Wait, son!
So ah’m gaun away doon the stairs, n it’s started pourin rain again as ah gits intae the cab. Kasey Linn, what kind ay name is that tae gie a fuckin bairn anywey? Thaire’s the same bullshit message fae Control oan the tagger. It’s that cunt Jimmy McVitie – Big Liz telt ays he wis oan the day.
FARE AT 23 WESTER HAILES DRIVE.
Ah type back:
JUST PICKED UP AT SIGHTHILL.
Then:
YOU ARE THE NEAREST CAB IN THE VICINITY.
Me:
WHAT PART OF JUST PICKED UP AT SIGHTHILL ARE YOU NOT UNDERSTANDING?
That shuts the snoopin cunt up. But ah looks up n punches the dashboard as ah sees muh ma come oot the stair, headin doon the street oantae the dual carriageway. Ah circles roond the back ay the flats, tae sketch her standin by the makeshift bus stop in the pishin rain, no even a fuckin shelter now, thanks tae these cunts n thair fuckin trams. So ah pills up n rolls doon the windae. — Git in, Ma!
— I’m fine waiting on the bus!
— Look, ah’m sorry. Ah jist dinnae want um takin the pish oot ay ye again. Come oan in!
She seems tae think aboot it, then relents and climbs in. — You prove you’re a better man than he wis, n she actually wags her finger at ays. — Dae right by yir ain bairns! See Donna! Phone Jason! Bring they two young laddies roond!
Ah’m no arguing wi her again aboot this. Ah’m no as bad as she makes oot. Ah speak tae Jason doon in Manchester every few weeks oan the phone. Ah jumps oantae the bypass n we travel pretty much in silence till ah droaps her oaf at the hozzy. She asks if ah’d like tae come up n see um, or gie um a message.
— Tell um thanks fir nowt n tae git fucked.
She’s no happy as she goes away inside, but it makes ays think. So ah goes, fuck it, n ah phones Suzanne n Yvette, wee Guillaume’s and the Ginger Bastard’s mas, n ah arranges tae take the two laddies oot. They cannae believe it, but they baith seem happy enough.
Ah go tae pick up Guillaume fae Niddrie Mains first, then we drives up tae posh Blackford Hills n gits the Ginger Bastard. Ah kin see the wee felly thinkin, as the Ginger Bastard runs doon the driveway ay the big house, through that landscaped gairdin, tae meet us, ‘How is it his ma n him live here, n my ma n me live in a mingin scheme?’ The Ginger Bastard, wearin a rid T-shirt that sets oaf the sheer, well, ridness ay the wee gadge, gits in, n they say weak ‘hiyas’ tae each other. Disnae say much, the Ginger Bastard, but eh’s eywis lookin aroond. Might huv ehs ma’s brains, cause ay his heid taperin backwards intae a point like a fuckin alien. Ken like they green cunts that ey goat wide wi Dan Dare, ay?
Then thaire’s wee Guillaume. Suzanne wis convinced that eh wis this French waiter’s at first. She’d banged the cunt the night before me, but nae fuckin chance ay that: the amount ay spunk that comes oot ay they hee-haws isnae fuckin real! Spunk? Ya cunt, if she’d stood up wi her legs apart ower a bucket eftir, ah could’ve wallpapered her fuckin hoose!
But wi spunk ay this quality ye goat tae fuckin guard it, cause burds want a bairn wi personality. Bein a man fae the bareback era n huvin they instincts, yuv goat tae be double-wide. Make sure a lassie’s oan the bun. But wi that Aids n STDs thaire’s loads thit’ll insist oan a johnny. Fuckin passion killers at the best ay times, n when yuv goat a welt like mine it kin take ages tae git one ay they things roond it. Tae me it’s like destroyin the gains made by the pill n the sexual revolution. The fuckin government’s fault: if aw they buftie public-school cunts hudnae been ridin each other thaire wid be nae fuckin Aids n STDs in the first place.
Anywey, that’s wee Guillaume but, ay. That one weekend ay madness n the next thing ah ken is ah’m draggin him n the Ginger Bastard roond. Wisnae a style-cramper at first, ye jist cut yir cloth, ay, n ah lapped it up n joined every single-parent’s event. Creche, nursery, school, ah did the fuckin loat. Telt aw the single mas that wee Guillaume’s mother had died in childbirth n ah hud adopted the Ginger Bastard, whae wis ma nephew, eftir his faither, ma kid brar, died in Afghanistan n
his ma became a drug addict. Banged aboot half a dozen ay thum aw weys, even goat one intae the scud flicks, before the bairns goat aulder n started gabbin, n then every cunt cottoned oan tae the scam. Loast a bit ay interest in the wee cunts eftir that, if the truth be telt.
So ah’ve goat the laddies in the cafe n we’re havin a juice before gaun tae a matinee in the cinema; thaire’s naewhaire else worth takin bairns when it’s this cauld. Now the Ginger Bastard’s lookin up at ays wi they eyes ay his. — You don’t love me as much as you love Guillaume.
Jesus fuck! What does the wee cunt expect? Has eh taken a fuckin deek at ehs hair in the mirror lately? — One question fir ye, pal, seein as you seem tae ken everything. What is love?
The Ginger Bastard’s bottom lip goes ower the toap yin. — It’s like . . . I dunno . . .
— Youse ur brothers, well, half-brothers, and youse might love each other. But in a different wey tae, say, how a man loves a woman, right?
— Yes, baith nod at once, n thank fuck. That’s a relief. No wantin a buftie son, especially the wee rid yin; cunt’s gaunny git it tight enough through bein a ginger bastard!
— Well, it’s like you two are different, n ah love yis baith the same, but in different weys, ay. Ah leave thum tae think aboot that. It’s jist a shame thit, wi the Ginger Bastard, it’s in a he’s-fuckin-well-no-wi-me sortay wey! Anyweys, ah took them tae see that Up film. Ya cunt, ah wis nearly fuckin greetin when the auld bastard wis talkin aboot ehs deid wife n how they wanted bairns n couldnae huv thum! Ah felt like telling um, shoutin at the screen: take these two wee fuckers, cause ah’m no wantin thum! Popcorn, hoat dogs, ice cream, Twixes, the fuckin lot, the greedy wee cunts!
So ah’m fuckin relieved tae dump thum oaf, but it wisnae a bad day oot. Wee Guillaume first at Niddrie Mains. As he heads intae the hoose, wi a wee nod fae his ma, Suzanne, ah looks at the Ginger Bastard n goes, — Think yirsel lucky yir in Blackford Hills. Ye widnae last two minutes doon here.
— Why are Guillaume and his mum so poor?
What kin ye say tae that? Ah jist ask the Ginger Bastard what he thinks, and he sits trying tae work it oot oan the wey back tae Blackford Hills. — Is it because his mummy isn’t so educated?
— It’s probably got something tae dae wi that. But then you’ve goat tae ask: how is it she’s no as educated as your ma?
The wee gadge steps oot the car wi a furrowed brow. Ah watches um head up the driveway ay the big hoose, the gravel crunchin under ehs nice black shoes.
Then, headin back intae toon through Oxgangs, ah strikes gold. A lassie’s standin by the bus stoap outside Goodie’s pub. She looks like she’s hud a few n she flags me doon. As ah stoaps, she waves ays away. — Ye wantin in or no?
— Ah’m gaun tae Stockbridge but ah’ve nae money till ah meet ma mate thaire but, ay.
— Awright, ah smiles, — hop in. We kin work something oot if yir game, likes.
She focuses oan ays. — Maybe we can.
Game as fuck, n nae playin the innocent when ah stoaps the motor doon this wee lane in Marchmont ah use: one ay ma top spots.
— Are ye no gaunny switch off the meter? she asks as ah open the back door.
— Aw, right, auld habits die hard, ah goes, scramblin tae the front. — Gled ye reminded ays, cause this might take some time!
3
OFFICE WORK
AYE SUR, AH’M a lucky man! Lucky isnae the word, naw sur, naw it isnae. Wee Jonty MacKay, luckiest man in the world! Ah am that, sur, aye, ah ah’m that! Ah’ve goat this cosy wee flat in Gorgie, muh wee Jinty, ma Internet oan ma computer, a DVD wi fullums, n that Fullum Station Fower oan the telly. As well as aw that, ah git a bit ay work now n then at the paintin. Aye, sur, the paintin.
If ah could change anything at aw it wid be tae git even mair work at the paintin, cause sometimes ah feel awfay bad aboot ma wee Jinty, workin aw they different cleanin joabs in they office blocks in toon, aye, ah dae. But ah ey make sure thit thaire’s a Findus frozen pizza n McCain oven chips, the type she likes, ready for her whin she comes in. Even whin it’s a nightshift n she’s no in till the wee ooirs, aye, ah make sure her pizza’s thaire, sur.
Findus.
Sometimes it wid be double barry if ah could learn tae drive a motor, like ma brar Hank, whae drives yon forklift truck. N Jinty sometimes sais tae ays: yir no that daft, Jonty, ah mean, yir ey oan that Internet, ye kin work a computer, so ye could easy learn tae drive a car. Raymond Gittings wid be able tae git ye mair work at yon paintin!
N ah suppose she’s right, but tae me that’s no what it’s aboot. Ah eywis say that if God wanted us tae go like that eh wid huv gied us wheels instead ay feet. Aye, eh wid. N ah’m jist a simple country lad fae Penicuik. Drivin around in a big, fancy car widnae be fir the likes ay me. Aye sur, Penicuik. Hank ey sais, dinnae keep goan oan aboot Penicuik bein the country, Jonty, cause it’s no the country n it’s no been the country fir a long time.
Aye, but it’s still country tae me, see? Aye sur, aye it is. Ye kin see the Pentland Hills fae muh ma’s hoose, so that makes it country tae me. Aye sur, aye it does. Two buses. Aye.
One ay the best things, but, is this Internet. Ah like this barry website that trains ye what ye dae if thaire’s a war. How tae make bombs n that. American likes, aye, it is that, ye kin tell by the wey it reads aw funny, aye sur, aye sur. Distress flare.
N ah hears the door gaun n Jinty’s comin in n she’s cauld. So ah shuts oaf the computer cause ah dinnae want her tae think ah’ve been oan it aw day. Her wee face is aw pinched n rid. — Sit doon by the bar fire thaire, Jinty, ah goes, — ah made ye some ay that Batchelors soup, no real soup, but the poodird sort ye pour the water ower.
— Thanks, pal, Jinty sais, — it’ll pit a rerr heat in me.
— It will, a rerr heat. Aye. That’s whit ah thoat. Aye sur, an awfay guid heat. N thaire’s pizza n chips eftir! Findus!
N wee Jinty smiles aw kind n sais, — Yir a wee darling, ye ken that?
Ah sortay blushes aw rid n then ah pats ma wee boaby man but through ma jeans n goes, — Ah ken what else’ll pit a rerr heat in ye, Jinty, aye sur, ah do that.
But Jinty jist looks aw sad n goes, — No the night, pal, ah’m awfay tired. Ah’m gaun right tae ma kip eftir ma tea, ay. Mibbe the morn but, ay, she goes, then looks at the computer then back at ays wi one eye screwed shut. — Huv you been oan that Internet again?
— Aye, thaire’s a barry website that tells ye what tae dae if thaire’s a war.
— As long as yir no lookin at nookie websites!
— Naw, ah am not, naw, naw . . .
— Jist jokin, Jonty! Dinnae worry aboot nookie, yi’ll git it the morn!
— Aye, sur, the morn, ah goes. N ah ken thit she’s no that keen since she’s been daein they late, late shifts in that oafice. Awfay tired, n nae wonder, oan that backshift. Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur: constant backshift. N it disnae worry me; ah jist snuggle up tae wee Jinty in bed n listen tae the stormy weather oan the weather channel n they shippin reports. N if ma wee boaby felly gits hard ah jist gie it a sly wee tug till the funny stuff aw spurts oot, n then ah faw right intae a deep sleep. N if Jinty sees the sheets ur messy in the mornin n goes, ‘What’s aw this?’ ah’ll jist go, ‘Ah must huv been dreamin aboot ye, hen.’ N she’ll jist laugh n go, ‘Ah dinnae think ah’m giein you enough, Jonty MacKay, ya randy wee devil!’ N then she’ll grab a hud ah ays n it’ll aw be double barry!
Aye, it’s great bein wi wee Jinty. Jinty n Jonty, Jonty n Jinty. Sometimes we argue aboot which yin comes first. She’ll go: Jinty n Jonty. Then ah’ll go: Jonty n Jinty. N we’ll hae a big laugh aboot it. Aye we will! Aye sur, aye sur, aye sur. A big laugh. Aye sur, that we will. Aye.
4
SWEET LIBERTY
AH HAD A shift at Liberty Leisure tae pit in. Jonty wouldnae be happy, he’s such a wee prude, but tae me it’s a wee bit extra jist for lyin on yir back or suckin oan something. N some ay the clients: thair patter’s no bad. This one auld boy keeps gaun oan at me tae come wi
um, tae Barbados or the South ay France. Ah jist goes, — Aye, right, cool yir jets, auld yin, n cough oot the prices. Hud tae laugh oot loud at that yin!
Ah work ootay this place doon by Leith Walk, cause ah’m no likely tae be spotted doon here in Hoboland, n perr wee Jonty thinks ah’m cleanin offices! Cleanin oot pipes mair like! He asks me if thaire’s foreign lassies fae the likes ay Eastern Europe n Africa whaire ah work n ah goes, — Too right, Jonty, ah’m aboot the only Scottish lassie thaire! N eh ay laughs at that, bless his wee hert.
So this Terry felly wi the wild curly hair is overseein the place while Vic’s off tae Spain. Ye kin tell that bastard Kelvin’s no pleased. But if this Terry keeps him in order then ah’m happy. This Terry but, ah’ve heard eh’s a sleaze bucket, cause eh does they scud films thit go oanline. Eh comes in when Andrea’s pittin Leigh-Anne’s hair intae pleats. That Kelvin but, eh’s lookin at me n goes, — It’s weird the wey you lassies kin spend fuckin donks daein that shite tae each other. Like apes fuckin groomin each other.
He eywis gies ays the creeps, Kelvin does. Eh’s goat two basic looks. The first yin’s a pinched sneer; it’s like eh’s sortay frozen in the act ay stabbin somebody. The second yin’s a dumb scowly face, like eh’s tryin tae work oot if it’s a guid idea tae grass some cunt up. That dark, near-skinheid cut oan that low forehead: ah swear that laddie defies nature cause it’s as if that hair’s advancing acroass it, instead ay recedin. One day it’ll fuckin meet they dark, knotted brows, n hopefully cover up they treacherous dancin eyes.
— No bein sexist or nowt like that, ken, Kelvin goes, — but tae me that shows wir further up the evolutionary ledder than burds. We’ve goat other things tae think aboot besides dressin each other up, eh goes, — like dressin youse doon!